


To Melt; To Burn

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday Cake, Birthday Sex, Champagne, Felching, Finger Sucking, God Bless America - Freeform, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Rimming, Snowballing, Steve Rogers: Birthday Boy, Supersoldiers in Love, Tongue Fucking, True Love, Wax Play, chocolate frosting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lips press over Steve's pec and suck in muscle and skin. A tongue twists around his nipple and Steve’s breath catches, and the mouth on him curls cheshire into a grin. The huff of a laugh sends a shiver through him, a spike of desire against the delicious shock of warm breath leaving the wet trail of Bucky’s mouth upon him to tingle wickedly, gorgeously: sharp.</p><p>Steve gathers himself enough to squint and turn to the side, to glance at the nightstand as Bucky kisses his neck and hums on the exhale just as Steve sees the time: 00:00, exactly.</p><p>“Happy Birthday, old man.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Melt; To Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Scribbled over my lunch break. Not beta'd. Possibly absurd. Lots of dirty porn. Whoops.

They go to bed early. 

No reason for it—and that’s what makes it beautiful. The freedom to slip into bed when the sun’s still teasing the horizon, to press skin to skin and just breathe until breathing turns even and soft and synced together enough to be a lullaby.

Steve holds these moments close, even now as they’ve become more frequent, more routine. He never takes them for granted; he remembers too well what it meant to have them only in the cruelest, most heartbreaking of his dreams.

They go to bed early. He doesn’t expect anything of it, really.

But then there is sweetness in the air, and a cool empty space at his side; there’s a harsh edge of smoke wafting forth, suddenly, that wakes him in the dark.

He means to shoot upward, fast to the fight, to the threat, but then he feels it: warmth. A heat on his chest that supersedes the adrenaline jackhammering through his veins as lips press over Steve's pec and suck in muscle and skin. A tongue twists around his nipple and Steve’s breath catches, and the mouth on him curls cheshire into a grin. The huff of a laugh sends a shiver through him, a spike of desire against the delicious shock of warm breath leaving the wet trail of Bucky’s mouth upon him to tingle wickedly, gorgeously: sharp.

Steve gathers himself enough to squint and turn to the side, to glance at the nightstand as Bucky kisses his neck and hums on the exhale just as Steve sees the time: 00:00, exactly.

“Happy Birthday, old man.” 

Bucky grinds his hips down where he’s come to straddle Steve’s waist, and drags a moan from Steve’s throat as he licks up to the swell of Steve’s bottom lip.

“Gotta start the day right, punk,” he lips against Steve’s mouth; “can’t let none of it go to waste.”

“No rush,” Steve pants, tasting cocoa and heady want on Bucky’s tongue where it laves across his lips, against his teeth. “We don’t got plans.”

“We’re not _going_ anywhere,” Bucky corrects him, running the tip of his nose down the line of Steve’s jaw, the strength of his panting breaths tangling in Steve’s hair. “We’re not meeting up with anyone.”

Bucky’s attention never wavers from Steve’s face, his lips never leave his skin for more than an instant, but Bucky’s hands are working the sleep pants from Steve’s hips deftly with every gasp he pulls from Steve’s chest, fierce and needy, gentle but persistent as fabric catches against Steve’s bare cock beneath, wet already at the slit for begging without any words.

Because it’s always pure need in him, like this. With Bucky. It’s always every part of him: body, heart, and soul, and it never wavers. Bucky offers, so much as suggests, and Steve is all in.

Always.

“There aren’t any parties.” Bucky whispers, low and lascivious as he tugs Steve’s pants lower, eases them off the strain of his dick without ever touching the length and Steve whimpers a little, at the shape of a touch that never comes to be. “No _galas_.”

And that word’s said with a snort implied, because Bucky thinks the idea that he and Steve are involved in fucking _galas_ , that they own black-tie and _white_ -tie duds for the hell of it, is goddamn _hilarious_.

“But Stevie,” Bucky purrs leaning to fit the ‘o’ of his mouth around the hollow of Steve’s throat where the pulse beats a greeting hard against those lips. 

“That don’t mean we don’t got _plans_.”

And when Steve’s pulse kicks heavy between his collarbones, the open space of Bucky’s kiss just there, waiting patient, is ready to consume.

“Oh,” Steve moans as Bucky cants his still-clothed hips against Steve’s bare groin. Bucky grins devilishly and presses his weight onto Steve’s chest as he reaches over, barely flickering light casting his features in gorgeous relief. 

“Just a taste,” Bucky tempts him, and oh: that’s where the scent of smoke was from—a single chocolate cupcake, with a single lighted candle, held out between them as Bucky shifts to balance on his thighs, to Steve’s blessed torment.

“Make a wish,” he says, sinful decadence laid out for Steve to breathe in, to take whole—devour.

“Don’t gotta,” Steve pants shallow; “you’re right here.”

And Bucky’s proffered hand is thrust to the side as he flattens himself atop Steve and takes his mouth rough and greedy, sucking Steve’s tongue wantonly as he licks deep down and tries to taste the core of who Steve is, which is pointless, really.

The core of Steve is _Bucky_.

“Oh no,” Bucky pulls back, and Steve doesn’t pretend not to whine, doesn’t fight the way he keens and follows into Bucky’s retreating body, even as Bucky grins and places a palm at the center of his chest to hold him steady.

“Stevie, baby,” and his left hand brings the cake back into view, and the single flame is longer, shaking—but maybe that’s Steve who’s shaking. God.

“S’gonna drip,” Bucky warns, teases; “if you don’t—”

And Steve flinches when the wax hits his chest, just between his nipples: perfectly centered where he’s most sensitive, the divot where his ribcage used to be so low, the cavern where his sternum was small and weak and his heart was a stubborn if trembling thing, and the first and last of all that’s still true, if nothing else—it’s sensitive as fuck, just above his trembling body, starting out from his trembling heart: the wax lands perfectly.

Aimed that way, deliberate. By hands that know his body like nobody else.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve gasps, the pain settling him alight just so, just _right_ , and he feels the serum flush out the burn as the wax dries and tries to grasp, to seep deeper, and then there’s a flick of a wrist above him: another drop. Another flinch.

Steve’s breath is coming short, and Bucky’s weight is still centered on Steve’s middle, trapping his cock as it grows too fucking _hard_.

“Come on,” Bucky murmurs, as another splotch of wax is deftly prevented from ruining the cake only to utterly ruin Steve in the process of searing his skin.

“Blow it out,” Bucky coaxes soft, coy; “make a wish.”

“Buck—”

“You need us to blow it out together?” Bucky says slyly, as the candle takes to dripping steady, drawing lines and curling spirals across Steve’s chest at Bucky’s whim as Bucky quirks a brow. “That what this is about?”

Steve can barely feel the gorgeous sting of the wax, once he figures out what Bucky’s implying.

“Bucky…”

Buck’s grin turns feral.

“I can take of that.”

And it’s pure providence, pure proof of what Bucky’s _doing_ to him that Steve’s breath comes heavy enough to extinguish the candle just for his gasping; it’s pure coincidence, and Bucky sets aside the treat again before swiftly going down on Steve, one fluid motion before his mouth takes him in, full and sweet in one fell swoop. 

“ _Jesus_.”

And Bucky’s sucking him, expert and swift until Steve’s vision starts to white out; until Steve’s body’s straining and his heart’s beating hard enough to pull his skin taut against the wax, against the _bones_ , and he’s just at the peak, he’s so fucking close, he can feel the way he twitches against the hollows of Bucky’s cheeks, the back of his throat, and—

“Aww, now,” Bucky pulls off, and Steve chokes air on a sob.

“Look at this,” Bucky sits up, surveying the wreck of Steve, his cock painfully hard, straining against Steve’s abs and Bucky just settling _enough_ weight against the shaft to send sparks, surges through Steve’s brain, to make sense elusive, to make vision blurry and the only thing Steve still knows is the word he keeps mouthing: Bucky, Bucky, _Bucky_ —

“Shh,” Bucky says, mouthing the wax from Steve’s skin and revealing soft welts of red beneath. “Let me make it better.”

There’s a pop somewhere in the periphery of the world, and then there’s tingling, a sizzling, impossible chill dripping from the notch of his throat and down, down, down. 

And Bucky’s tongue licks up a trail of the bubbling ice and tongues it into Steve’s mouth: champagne.

“Celebratory,” Bucky breathes against his lips; “S’what it’s for, right?”

Steve shivers, shakes, can’t catch his goddamned breath.

“And chilled,” Bucky points out, mouthing back down to guide the liquid toward the spots of red, pouring more until it starts to pool in the dips of Steve’s muscles where Bucky licks it up, drinks from him like a chalice: sacred as he breathes: “Soothing.”

“You’re unbelieveable,” Steve sighs, lost in sensation, because dear god; dear _god_.

And Bucky chuckles, and Steve feels every rumble, every roll of joy through that body that Steve thought he’d never feel again; that he thought might be lost to him even in the living again, and oh, oh—

“I do try,” Bucky whispers, sucking on the pulse in Steve’s neck with sudden concerted effort, delicate heat: utter devotion as Steve starts to gasp, lashes fluttering, world hazing over and narrowing down to this and only this once more.

And then fingertips are at his lips, stroking. Steve’s tongue meets them on instinct: oddly sweet.

“Had some frosting left over,” Bucky murmurs at the crook of his neck as tacky metal digits draws icing across Steve’s chest, connects the dots of the now-mostly faded marks of hot wax. “Would you believe it?”

Steve only groans around the perfect flavor of Bucky’s fingers in his mouth, sucking them hard, cleaning them completely as Bucky braces on Steve’s chest as he swings his body down, hands never moving as Bucky folds himself to breathe at Steve’s groin, Steve’s balls, Steve’s perineum, and then—

“ _Fucking_ —” Steve can’t even speak as Bucky licks unceremoniously at Steve’s hole, flicking at the opening until the muscle eases, flutters to let him tongue Steve open as Steve sucks, chokes on Bucky’s fingertips, bites him down to the knuckles for the sheer pleasure consuming Steve’s entire sense of self, entire promise of being, and he can’t, he _can’t_ —

“You’re ready,” Bucky declares, decisive, and Steve whines: he’s ready and not ready. He’s dying and immortal, all at once.

Bucky slides in, and drags both hands down Steve’s messy chest to Steve’s hips, to either side of Steve’s still-hard cock, lilting over the tip before caging it in loose, soft like a caress and Steve doesn’t know if he can take it, Steve doesn’t fucking _know_.

“Breathe, baby,” Bucky reminds him, and so breathe is what Steve does. Bucky fills him in a single trust, sheathed to the hilt, balls tight against Steve’s body and god, Steve never knew what it meant to be complete until he first felt Bucky in every possible place, etching pieces of Steve that he didn’t know existed and taking those carved lines and filling them in, giving them color, and god, but Bucky’s pace is the breath of the universe. Bucky’s hands on him are a spiralling dance across his cock, the snap of a wrist and the trace of fingertips, strange and wonderful and everything Steve never quite knows he wants until Bucky gives it: he’s close.

God, he’s _close_.

Bucky still and thrusts into him fast and wild and Steve follows over hands working him with singular dedication despite proof that Bucky’s lost his own mind to the crest of pleasure he’s riding hard into Steve—like Bucky’s first purpose in the world is to keep Steve, to see Steve satisfied, and that makes the tripping frenetics in Steve’s chest swell wide with new wonder as he spills and spills and cannot _breathe_ except that Bucky’s caressing him, just behind his balls and up and up and up, crossing arms around him and holding him so close, and he’s soft still buried in Steve, his seed still held inside Steve, and Steve’s heart’s pounding raucous against Bucky’s hands on his chest; Bucky’s hearts pumping free and giddy against Steve’s spine—and Bucky’s fingers start to dance in patterns it takes Steve a moment to figure: the dots, the wax where it’d dropped, Bucky connects them—slow and deliberate.

_To the en—_

Steve gasps, and covers those hands to flattened palms against his heaving chest as Bucky nuzzles, breathes in deep at the base of Steve’s skull, pressing a kiss there and then lower, lower, easing out of Steve slowly with every press of his mouth to a vertebra further down, down, down and by the time Steve could have come apart for losing the feeling of Bucky in him, to start to let the heat drip from him, it’s impossible to come apart because Bucky doesn’t let it happen, Bucky doesn’t leave him empty at all because once he slips free his mouth is right there, licking Steve clean of Bucky’s own mess, mouthing at Steve’s stretched hole and letting nothing given go to waste, spreading Steve wide to the point of gasping with both hands on Steve’s ass, tongue fucking in but so careful, so gentle.

And just as Steve can’t bear it any longer, he’s blanketing Steve’s whole body, weight everywhere, warmth everywhere, safe everywhere because Bucky is the shield his body fits, the space his soul feels at home, and then Bucky’s kissing him, kissing the life from him and giving his own life back in return, and Steve tastes Bucky’s tang as he feeds it into Steve’s mouth, the taste Steve swallows and savors and knows to be his lover, mixed with his own sweat and the subtle skim of sugar. 

Of chocolate.

Steve laughs, swallows, feels warmer than he thinks he’s ever known. 

Except then he feels, just before he sees Bucky’s face: lit from the inside, smiling so soft, reaching out and brushing Steve’s hair like he’s a precious thing: the only thing.

“Happy Birthday, babydoll,” he breathes, and Steve leans to kiss him, one more time: to pour everything he’s got left into him right back, full and free and forever, before he slumps back, boneless.

“Back to bed, sleepyhead,” Bucky smirks, curling around Steve and easing him under the covers, lapping swift and soft at the stickiness, the frosting still on Steve’s skin even as Steve protests the end of their escapades through heavy eyes. 

“To be continued, Stevie,” Bucky reassures, tucking the sheets around him and kissing him soft and sweet. “Don’t you worry.”

He settles on Steve’s chest and wraps arms around him. 

“Just wait til you see what I got for when you wake up.”

And Steve manages to give in to the pull of sleep on the high of that promise; manages to keep his eyes open to watch the rise and fall of his lover’s chest against his own for just a few more moments as he breathes in what they’ve shared, what they are.

His gaze drifts: one last image before sleep claims him:

The cupcake, funnily enough, was only disturbed by Bucky’s fingertip in the icing; it doesn’t have a single bite mark on it.

It’s the only one of them that doesn’t.

And hell—but Steve’s looking forward to morning.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
